Title: When Life Gives You Dishes, Make Hot Fudge Cake
Series: Fullmetal Alchemist
Warning: Bondage, food kink, all the normal warnings when Ling is involved. Also, alternate ending.
Summary: "Ling Yao, when I get out of these fucking ropes and regain the ability to my move my limbs, your ass is mine."
There is a monster in the kitchen sink.
It lives in a mountainous heap of heartache and despair towering over the kitchen counter. It looms like a creature lurking in the depths of hell itself, gaping maw waiting to snatch up any unfortunate, unwitting passerby.
Ling is equipped with a dishcloth in one hand and a bottle of liquid soap in the other, and it is his duty to slay the beast.
"Don't you 'Ed' me. It's your night for dishes; now get to it before we get cockroaches."
Ed is standing next to the sink, perilously close to and in grave danger of being eaten alive by the dish monster. His arms are folded across his chest, and he is wearing a very annoyed expression.
Ling may very well be doomed.
"Can't you at least help me?" Ling asks.
"You didn't help me last night," Ed responds coldly. There is nothing sympathetic in his gaze, but Ling refuses to face the sad truth that he might be in this alone. There is always a way out of manual labor, if one knows which buttons to push.
"We got carry out last night," Ling tries.
"That's because you were too lazy to make anything. If you had, I would have done the dishes."
Damn. Ling hates it when Ed is right.
But there is still hope. "And then you went out of your way to make a huge mess? You're very cruel, Ed."
"I went out my way to make you a proper Xingese meal, because you spent all of last night bitching about how much better real almond chicken and rice tastes. I thought I'd do something nice for you. I'm so glad you're appreciating it so much."
Ed is a stone wall, Ling thinks, which is not as much of a rather ridiculous thought as it first seemed. Ed is not physically large, perhaps, but he makes up for it with his enormous attitude. Ed is a stone wall, not in stature, but in stubbornness. Each and every time Ling wants to get his way, he has to climb the Edward Wall first.
Ling wonders briefly why he ever gave up the lush life of a prince in order to live with Ed. Ed is terrible at treating him the way princes ought to be treated.
But these days, the Xingese throne had been passed on to someone who isn't Ling, and it isn't exactly a very good idea for him to be in Xing right now. Sure, he has people, and his people are pulling strings and pushing buttons and working all over the place both within and without the Yao clan. But right now, Ling can help them the most by not getting himself assassinated.
And that means staying out of reach of their assassins.
Ling likes to think he only lives in this dingy little apartment with Ed because Ed makes a good bodyguard, now that Ran Fan's gone and gotten married and all, but that's not exactly true either. It's mostly because it's so much more convenient to sleep with Ed when they share the same bed anyway.
Regardless, Ed did do something nice for him, and he probably shouldn't make Ed help him clean it up, but there's only one more person in the house, and that's him. So in other words, he's back to whining.
"Forget it," Ed snaps. "We're going to get cockroaches again—like that time you left the trash out for three days? You remember that? Do you remember how the roaches were so big that we could tell them apart from their different facial structures? Yeah? That's going to happen again. And then I'm moving out."
Forget a stone wall. Ed is a mountain.
"Don't move out, Ed. To think you would leave over such a silly thing," Ling replies, spreading his hands wide apart. "It's just that I think there's something living in there, and it might try and eat me if I move its house. It's better to leave sleeping monsters lie—is that how the phrase goes?"
"No. It's not." Ed throws a dish towel in his face and stalks toward the front door. "I'm going for a walk. You've got a half hour before I come in here and beat you down. And you will be sleeping on the couch forever."
A wise man once told Ling that he couldn't imagine having fifty wives, that one of them was enough of a pain in the ass. Ling may have forgone the fifty wives, but he's pretty sure Ed is doing a good job of being enough of a pain in the ass for all of them.
He wonders if he has enough time to call Al over and somehow coerce him into doing their dishes. A half hour isn't very long, after all.
Ed returns promptly a half hour later, and he isn't surprised when the stack of dishes is still in the sink, dirty as ever. He also isn't surprised that Ling is nowhere to be found.
"I'm going to kill you," Ed tells the room in general, because Ling is probably hiding in the ceiling fan or something. "I'm going to kill you and then bring you back to life so you can clean up the mess you made the first time I killed you, and then I'm going to kill you again. Do you hear me?"
There's silence for a long moment.
"Who is going to clean up the second mess?" Ling's voice asks from the direction of the bedroom.
"The military police, after they arrest me!" Ed shouts, stomping a bit gratuitously as he thunders down the hallway toward the bedroom. "It's not as though the neighbors won't hear your screams, after all, and I'll go to jail forever, and it'll all be because you didn't do the—"
Ed opens the bedroom door and stops talking for a moment.
Ling has lit all of his fruity, girly candles and incense, and these are the only things that light the room. The heavy curtains Ling had picked up somewhere and Ed bitched about endlessly because they are ugly as sin (though he secretly loves the way they filter out every single bit of light from outside and let him sleep until noon on days he stays up to late at the lab) are pulled, shutting out the drab view of concrete and the next apartment building over.
Ling is sitting cross legged on the floor in front of an end table dragged in from the living room. He's wearing Amestrian clothing, which is secretly something Ed enjoys very much (or maybe not so secretly, considering Ling obviously knows about it). His pants are tight and his shirt is loose. The pants are a great sacrifice to Ling, who loves his loose fitting clothing. He will never, Ed has come to realize a long time ago, give up his loose, open shirts.
What is on the table is the most amazing part of the entire picture. Ling has somehow conjured up Ed's absolute favorite dessert in the entire world—hot fudge cake. It's that super dense kind that melts on your tongue and is so rich you have to wait five minutes between bites or it's just too much. It's still warm and probably has real hot fudge baked inside of it. Ling has supplemented this with vanilla ice cream, real whipping cream, and some sort of dark red wine.
Ling smiles. Ed is overcome with a sudden urge to tackle him over the table and kiss that fucking smile off of his idiotic face.
Fuck. How the hell does he always do this?
"What the fuck is this?"
"Dessert." As if, you know, it isn't completely obvious. Ling is still smiling when he says it. "A delicious meal can only be made better by an equally delicious dessert, don't you think?"
The problem with hot fudge is that it always makes Ed picture Ling naked and covered with the stuff.
This is not helping the situation. Ed is supposed to be angry at Ling. He is supposed to be raging about dishes, smacking Ling in the face, and throwing all of Ling's belongings out the front door. He is not supposed to be trying to figure out what he wants more, Ling or the fucking cake.
He should run. He should escape while he still can. Take a long, cold shower, maybe have a wank, just, you know, take the edge off. Then he can come back and have a rational (angry) conversation. He should run, and his feet are planted right there, in the doorway.
Ling pours a second glass of wine. "Pinot Noir," he says cheerfully.
"I hate you," Ed replies.
"I knew you would." Ling's smile suddenly turns predatory, and Ed knows he's in trouble. When Ling stands up, Ed sees that the pants are made out of velvet. Black velvet, that clings to every contour of his (freakishly) long legs. It shimmers in the low light of the room with every move, and Ed couldn't have turned way if his life had depended on it.
Ling walks right up to him and slides his hands down Ed's sides, reaching around behind and resting on his ass. Ed still hasn't moved. There is a serious lack of blood in his body, he thinks, feeling somewhat heady. It's all in one place.
"How the hell," Ed starts, and then swallows. He's looking up at Ling and Ling is looking down at him. He tries again. "How the hell did you put this together in a half hour?"
When Ling laughs, it's sweet and melodious and the most fucking beautiful sound in the world. Ling's laugh never fails to send a trill of excitement down Ed's spine, which is so goddamn girly that he will never admit it to anyone ever.
"Magic," Ling says, lifting his hands in order to flutter his fingers dramatically.
"How many favors did you call in for this?" Ed asks breathily. He concentrates on how Ling is a subtle, manipulative bastard. He thinks about the dishes in the kitchen sink. He thinks about laundry, which is the most uninteresting thing in the entire world, and fuck, Ling is smirking at him again; so much for remembering how to breathe.
"Oh, you know, just one or two." Ling's lips are on his ear, Ling's hands are on his ass, and Ed is still just standing there like a bump on a log. He can't even fucking react to those velvet pants.
Ling's mouth works its way down Ed's neck, and Ed at least has the presence of mind to tip his chin upwards. "Are you still angry?"
Oh. He is angry, isn't he?
Dishes! Those goddamn dishes!
And Ling, that bastard, had gone and made more of them.
"Damn straight I am," Ed growls, bringing his hands up to Ling's chest to shove him away. Okay, so what if he's visibly aroused? So what if he wants to fucking smear that damn hot fudge all over Ling? Ling has still left all the dishes in the sink! They're going to get roaches, and then Ling will be dead! Forget the velvet pants!
Ed has caught Ling by surprise, and he stumbles backwards a little. He catches himself on one of the bed's four posters. "Hahaha, I guess that was a bad question."
He's pretty sure Ling could have avoided the jump, being a ninja and all, but instead, they both go tumbling against the footboard. The angle is bad; they topple to the floor in the reverse position that Ed wanted. He's on his back on the carpet with his legs locked around Ling's waist, and Ling is above him on his knees and elbows.
"I'm fucking pissed," Ed retorts. He reaches around with his metal fist and locks his fingers in Ling's hair. He jerks Ling's head down and kisses him savagely. Ling whimpers into the kiss as Ed shifts his lower body to brush against Ling's crotch, and suddenly, Ling is grinding against him.
The kiss breaks when they both gasp for breath, and Ling stares down at him sulkily. "You made me hit the footboard. I am going to have a bruise the size of a horse."
"You're also going bald when I try to get my hand untangled from your hair," Ed responds steadily.
Ling's face falls further. "You did that on purpose."
"I told you I was pissed."
"Don't be pissed." Ling leans down and bites Ed's lower lip, drawing it back with his teeth.
For a moment, Ed is almost convinced that it's a secret ninja sex technique, because he feels his body relaxing and his muscles loosening. The illusion is ruined when he realizes that Ling's fingers have somehow found their way to the back of his neck and are pressing some sort of pressure point or something. Ed groans, his legs sliding off of Ling's hips and his hand relaxing its grip on Ling's hair.
"Fucking cheater," Ed mumbles.
Ed has Rules about sex. The number one rule involves not stopping to eat in the middle of it (Ed recognizes the importance of food, but really, that's just tacky; he would rather Ling just pass out because then he feels like he's done something really awesome), but the number two rule is Don't Use Ninja Techniques In Bed, Damn It. There is a loophole here; technically, they are on the floor and not in bed, but Ed only acknowledges loopholes when they benefit him.
"Just relax," Ling hums, his lips gently brushing the shell of Ed's ear and making him shiver. "I am going to make you forget about the dishes, and all you have to do is just let me."
"I can't move my arms or legs, you fucking stupid asshole," Ed scowls. "You're a dirty fucking cheat and I am never going to forget about the dishes, or that you're using your weird ninja powers to get me to have sex with you, and that's not fair."
"Ah." Ling draws back, looking rather amused and somehow very pleased with himself. "I think that's why we have a safe word."
The safe word idea had come into play a while ago when Ling decided that they needed to try role playing (which was stupid, thank you, and Ed had certainly not enjoyed as much as it seemed like at the time, shut up). Ling's idea for a safe word was a nine syllable long Xingese word that Ed could not remember, much less pronounce. He pointed out the difficulties in this going both ways and had suggested something else, something that Ed was quite certain no one would ever accidentally shout during sex.
It is 'sheep.' Ling had once claimed that that sounded like the Xingese word for 'more,' and had gotten hit for his effort. Ed knew enough Xingese to know that was not true.
So now, Ed is lying on the ground, with hot fudge cake just fucking inches away, unable to move and with his boyfriend sitting on top of him, and he's supposed to whine about sheep? No fucking way. It isn't like Ling is going to do anything he doesn't like anyway.
Ling laughs at Ed's sudden silence. "I thought so," he announces, and sits back up, so that he is kneeling between Ed's relaxed legs. He draws back his loose shirt as Ed watches and drops it to the ground languidly. Then he reaches over, and—
"Hey! Hey, you can't eat that while I'm just lying here!" Ed shouts as Ling cuts himself a slice of that amazing fucking cake. He knows—he knows—Ling isn't going to share.
Something amazing happens, then. Ling pauses. He looks down at Ed, and then he looks back at the cake, a considering expression on his face. And then he takes a bite.
The cake will be gone in seventeen seconds if Ed doesn't intervene. But what can he do? He can't move his goddamn arms. The only thing he has is his voice, and Ling isn't listening to anything he says, clearly. Maybe he can use the power of his mind to compel Ling to stop being an asshole. But if that was going to work at all, it would have ages ago.
And then, Ed gets an idea.
"Sheep! SHEEP!" he howls.
Ling stops again, blinking at Ed in clear surprise. Ed has invoked the power of the sheep, and it has, surprisingly enough, worked. Placing the plate of cake to the side, Ling moves slightly, looking ridiculously amused. "Are you using the safe word because I am eating cake?" he asks, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards slightly.
"I'm using the fucking safe word because I am unable to move and you are torturing me and I don't like it!" Ed hisses.
Ling laughs, because Ling is an asshole and that's what he does when confronted with Ed's pain and misery. "You act as though you are going to get nothing out of this," he says conversationally. "Besides, the safe word doesn't count when we're not having sex."
"It doesn't matter if we're having sex or not! I don't like what you're doing and I can't do anything about it, so fucking sheep," Ed snarls.
"Ed." Ling spreads his lithe body out over top of Ed, so that he is resting propped up on one arm balanced on Ed's chest. "I went a long ways out of my way to get your favorite kind of cake because you are angry at me and I am begging you for your forgiveness." He gets a look on his face that clearly lets Ed know exactly what sorts of wonderful things await him if he allows them to. Ling reaches up his other hand and begins brushing back the hair on Ed's forehead, and one of his legs moves to brush against Ed's groin in a rather tantalizing manner.
The look on Ling's face is amazingly sexy, and Ed's entire body is doing things against his will again. "Do you really want me to stop?"
Ed's resolve wavers, but it does not break—not entirely.
"Will you share the cake?" he asks, quite seriously.
Ling's expression remains serious. "Yes, Ed. If you allow me to continue to make you the happiest person in this country, I will share this cake with you."
Ed glares at him for a long moment, unsure of whether or not he has accomplished anything here. "...fine. But if you're lying, the consequences are going to be dire."
"I will most certainly keep that in mind," Ling promises, looking delighted. Ed rolls his eyes toward the cake, but Ling seems to be ignoring that for now. A drop of gooey hot fudge oozes off of the edge of the plate and lands on the floor.
Ling gets himself busy removing Ed's clothing. The sweatshirt goes first, loose and baggy as it is. Next is Ed's long sleeved shirt, and then his tank top. Ling is looking somewhat annoyed by the amount of clothing Ed is wearing by this point. But then, if Ed had the ability to use his arms and legs, this wouldn't be an issue, now would it? He wishes he had put on three more shirts that morning.
Ling wriggles sideways to grab a pillow that had fallen on the floor earlier. He arranges is until Ed's head and neck, which is uncharacteristically nice considering their positions, and something happens. Ed moves his pinky finger. He has moved it!
He is exceptionally excited about this until Ling grabs a red silk tie thing from underneath the coffee table.
"Ling—Ling, no—Ling, stop it—LING, NO."
Ling is humming—actually fucking humming—as he cheerfully pulls Ed's arms over his head and ties the rope around his wrists. Ed's limp arms are not hindering this process, nor is the one pinky finger he has the ability to move.
"You—you're a dirty, fucking, cheating asshole, and I hate you with every fiber of my being! The fibers of my fibers hate you! DO YOU HEAR ME? Ling Yao, when I get out of these fucking ropes and regain the ability to move my limbs, your ass is mine."
With Ed's wrists heavily secured to one another, Ling stands up, enthusiastically ignoring Ed's complaints. He stands with one foot on either side of Ed's head, giving Ed a wonderful view of the family jewels, outlined very nicely by those deliciously tight pants (do not think about the pants, Ed, do not think about the pants). Ed feels a tugging on his arms and forces himself to look up at what Ling is doing and not just at what he is wearing.
Oh. Lovely. Ling is tying the end of the rope to the ceiling fan. And he's making it tight enough that Ed's arms are stuck in an elevated position.
Once they are secured, Ling drops back down into a crouch and settling on Ed's stomach. He smiles beneficently at his captive. "I will look forward to that." He reaches over to the table and grasps the stem of one of the wine glasses. He takes a sip and then offers it to Ed. "Would you like some wine, Ed?" he asks sweetly.
"No," Ed snarls, but Ling is bringing the glass up to his lips anyway. He has a couple of options here—he could take a drink, or he could keep his mouth closed and let it spill all over the place. Being Ed, he chooses the latter option.
Ling frowns as he pulls the goblet away. "Now you've gone and made a mess," he says conversationally while wine drips off of Ed's face. "And I'm fresh out of napkins. Oh well!"
For a moment, Ed thinks he is going to have to live with wine all over his face and dripping down his chin and throat. And then Ling leans down and starts licking him clean. Ed's need had gotten a little less, well, needy as Ling had tied him up, but suddenly, it was very insistent again. Fuck Ling for being so hot! Fuck Ling for knowing how to turn him on like this!
Ling takes his time, the stupid bastard. He takes his time cleaning every last drop of wine off of Ed's face and neck, and Ed is chewing on his lower lip to keep from saying anything. When Ling finally draws back, he is wearing an appreciative look on his face.
"Ed," he comments lightly, "I think you are fulfilling at least three of my sexual fantasies right now."
"Oh my god, I fucking hate you so much," Ed snarls, wishing Ling was a little closer so that he could bite him or something.
Ling, unsurprisingly enough, ignores him. "Let's make it four, shall we?"
He moves, nudging Ed's legs further apart and arranging himself between them. As he does so, he very purposefully brushes against Ed's problem. Despite Ed's determination not to react, he can't help but let out a needy little whine at this.
This is enough encouragement for Ling, it seems, who is busily undoing Ed's belt. He tugs the leather pants down Ed's hips, just far enough that it doesn't take a lot of encouragement to coax Ed Jr. though the folds of his boxers.
"Oh, hello!" Ling croons in delight at this appearance. Ed's cock is very hard and standing at attention, approximately three inches from Ling's nose. "I am glad at least part of you is happy to see me. Yes, darling, I missed you too." He kisses the very tip of it, and Ed whimpers again, wincing his eyes closed. If Ling continues doing nothing, he is probably going to start on fire from the sheer rage building up in Ed's mind.
When Ling acts, it is not how Ed wants him to. He moves away from Ed's cock and instead leans forward across Ed's stomach and chest. "Now, you wanted some cake, right?"
Cake! Ed stares at Ling like he is crazy.
"Goddamn it! Fuck you, you stupid fucking bastard, I am going to fucking kill you and piss on your goddamn corpse before I fucking set it on fire," Ed tells Ling very seriously.
Ling looks confused. "You don't want cake? I thought you said...oh well, more for me." He picks up the plate and the fork from before.
Ed stares at him in shocked disbelief. Ling is heartless!
"No! Wait! I meant...," he whines. His hip twitches a little on its own accord, which is a great sign because it means that he is that much closer to being able to kick Ling in the face.
"Ah! I knew it! You do want some cake." Ling smiles and breaks off a piece of the cake, dipping it in some of the creamy fudge in the center. The fudge drips down his hand as he moves the cake toward Ed's mouth. Ed opens his mouth obediently, because fuck if he's going to let Ling lick that off of his face.
The cake tastes as good as it looks, which is a feat into itself. Ed would be in heaven if it weren't for that insistent, throbbing feeling of being about to die if nothing touches his cock within the next thirty seconds.
"How is it?" Ling asks with a predatory grin.
"Hate you," Ed whines.
Ling feeds him another bite. Ed has described this cake as orgasmic before, but it isn't really. If only.
"Do you forgive me for not doing the dishes?" Ling continues, moving so that one hand is barely centimeters away from where Ed really, really needs it. It's so close, he can feel the heat from Ling's hand on his skin.
"Aaaauuuggggggggghhhhhh," he responds.
Ling lets out a long suffering sigh, and Ed mourns as a the hand leaves again. "I guess I will have to try harder to gain your forgiveness."
His hand gets further and further away from Ed's dick, going back toward the cake instead. Ed doesn't want cake! He wants Ling! "Wait, wait, wait, okay—you're forgiven, fuck you, just fucking do something, you manipulative bastard!"
"Oh...well, if you insist, Ed."
Fuck. Fuck, what had he just gotten himself into?
Ling begins casually unfastening the buckles on Ed's boots and pulling them off. Next go the socks, and then, a bit slower, the pants. Ed is making snarling sounds at Ling as he works, and it isn't really making him go any faster. Finally, the boxers go too, and Ed is finally—finally!—naked.
There is one single piece of clothing between them, and that is Ling's fucking gorgeous pants. Ed isn't sure whether he is happy or sad when Ling puts on a little show of peeling them off of his legs. But, instead of discarding them with the other clothing, Ling drapes them eloquently across Ed's chest. They are warm and soft and, oh god.
Ed's legs twitch. Both of them.
"Liiiiiiiiing." His voice is a growling hiss as he says it.
Ling smiles widely and settles between Ed's legs. He pulls the metal one up against his hip, and then, instead of the next step in the process, he reaches for the pants. Ed stares at him, glowers at him, and thinks nasty things at him, but he says nothing. He's fairly certain he's beyond the capacity for language at the moment.
Somehow, Ling always has a jar of lubricant within an arm's length. Even if he's completely naked and in a room he has never set foot in before today, he will have a jar within two seconds if it comes to sex. Ed isn't sure how he manages it. Maybe it's a ninja thing. Or maybe it's just a Ling thing. Ed is typically inclined to believe the latter.
But before Ling can do anything with the lube that has just magically appeared in his hand, he decides to do something with the pants first. He brings one of the legs down and wraps it around Ed's member, and then he closes his fist around the velvet.
It's cool and beautiful and fucking ticklish and horrible, and Ed cries out before he can stop himself. His legs move on their own accord, and he can't even think that he has just made his legs move because it's so torturous.
It seems like Ling is finally taking pity on him, though. He is dimly aware of the lubricant being applied, and then Ling is sliding into place. Ed wraps his legs around Ling's waist and tries to encourage him deeper. Ling obliges, and Ed is briefly aware of the expression on his face, one that shows that Ling might have been almost as desperate as Ed is.
As soon as Ling starts thrusting and Ed's hips are automatically matching his movements, Ed realizes a bit belatedly that he has regained the ability to move. He's not entirely sure when it happened, and he doesn't care either. Ling is leaning forward across his body, and his abs are pressing the evil velvet pants against Ed's erection rather deliciously.
He realizes the first time Ling hits his prostate that he isn't long for this world. He groans and arches his back, and Ling gratifies him by moving even faster. His arms strain against the bonds and the rope creaks a little as Ed pulls on them harder than he had been.
Ling begins whispering in Xingese. Ed doesn't know enough to understand what he's saying, and he wouldn't really be coherent enough to translate it, even if he did understand it. Either way, it means Ling isn't going to last a whole lot longer. That's all right, Ed isn't either. In fact, in the end, it's Ed that finishes first, throwing his head back and jerks his hips. His mouth is open but he doesn't make any sound—it's usually the only part of sex where Ed doesn't make noise.
The glorious velvet pants take almost all of the damage, and even as Ed starts to come down off of the high, he feels Ling twitch and finally come inside of him. Ling bites down on his left shoulder, hard, still holding onto Ed's hips, as he finishes. And then he goes completely limp, lying like a dishrag across Ed's body. Ed's only complaint about this position is that he can't really cuddle with his arms strung up still. The rope is creaking again, now with Ling's added weight, and it suddenly occurs to Ed that Ling tied his hands together, meaning that he could have transmuted himself out of this at any given time.
Ling nuzzles his face like a happy cat, and Ed goes to transmute his hands free when there is a cracking noise from somewhere and Ed's hands suddenly go slack. He has a split second to wonder about this before the ceiling fan crashes down onto Ling's head.
From underneath the former ceiling fan, there comes a whimpering noise.
Ed drops his head back down to the pillow and groans. "You are so paying the damage deposit on this place," he sighs.
Ling lies on his stomach on the bed, his face buried in a pillow and his arms stretched upwards, hugging the pillow. Ed is gently applying ice to the large bump on the back of Ling's head.
"I think it's stopped bleeding," Ed reports hopefully.
Most of Ling's upper back is slowly turning purple, and there are a few nasty cuts, but nothing is broken and nothing requires stitches. The ceiling fan, however, has suffered a worse fate, and Ed isn't sure how to fix it because of the electric wires and all that, so it is currently sitting in four million pieces on the bedroom floor. There is wine and fudge smeared all over the rug, and one of the plates has even broken on impact.
Ed's bedroom has been ruined, all because Ling didn't want to do the dishes. He sighs and shifts the ice slightly. He can't even be all that mad at Ling anymore, because Ling did make a very nice evening for him, and also Ling got wounded in action as a result.
That doesn't mean Ling is getting away with this, however. And judging from the fact that Ling is sort of half whimpering and not really saying anything about it, he probably knows it.
"Well, Ling," Ed says, abandoning the ice and sprawling out next to the other man. "You got out of dishes tonight." Ed had called Al and given an abridged version of what had happened, and Al had helped by doing the dishes and bringing over ice and such. "And I forgave you for that." Had been coerced into forgiving Ling for that, actually, but whatever. "But I can't forgive you so easily for what you have done to my bedroom."
Ling moans into his pillow.
"You're on dishes duty every day for the next month," Ed tells him sternly. "That means you. Not Al, not some random kid you hire, not someone who owes you a favor. You. Got it?"
One of Ling's arms flails aimlessly. "You are so cruel to me, Ed, after I go so far out of my way to do something so nice for you," he moans.
"Shut up. I'm not done yet." Ed tucks his hands behind his head and notices an ominous looking crack in the ceiling that hadn't been there earlier today. "You're also not allowed to wear anything except for those velvet pants while you're doing the dishes."
Ling turns his head and looks at Ed.
"And where will you be while this is going on?" Ling asks him.
"Well, someone has to make sure you're actually doing the dishes, right?" Ed asks, raising a brow. "So I'll be right behind you. Watching you. To make sure."
Ling stares at him. And then, very slowly, he smiles knowingly.
The dishes are never, ever going to be done again.